


Ceremony

by celinamoon



Series: Garden Bench Stories [1]
Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celinamoon/pseuds/celinamoon
Summary: Cliff has been Rick's stuntman, personal gofer, and shadow for sometime. Their lives become increasingly interdependent and when Cliff moves into Rick's house something has to give- in extremely slow motion. Talk about denial.





	Ceremony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terebi_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terebi_me/gifts).

> This is my first attempt at writing this kind of fiction. If anyone is offended by the terminology, apologies. I have tried to write this using vocabulary and terminology that a 1960's hip male would use. This my own (surprising!) point of view of how a male (Cliff) of limited sophistication, entering a romantic and ultimately sexual relationship with another male, verbalizes it and yet retains his self construct of masculinity. This must be a Barbara Cartland free zone! I have played with the order of the events in the film without- I hope- veering too far from canon. Constructive comments would be most appreciated. If the aftermath of the story is of interest, I have one planned out. Please let me know. 
> 
> My thanks to the garden bench. 
> 
> A bouquet of gratitude to terebi_me, who not only pointed out my errors in syntax and vocabulary, but also helped me restructure awkward phraseology. Their judgement that this text now passes muster makes the effort involved in writing it worth it.

Ceremony by CelinaMoon

A bad day at work for Rick means a very bad night for Cliff. Today had been a very very bad day for the actor. Lines had been forgotten. Horses had refused to let him mount. A nine year old method actress had lectured Rick on acting technique and scene interpretation. He had run out of liquid courage and Cliff had not been there to go get a refill for his flask... That night Cliff sat in Rick’s house’s patio, sweating and smoking in the sundown heat; stoically waiting for what was to come. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rick hanging back in the shadows by the patio doors; his left hand holding a giant blender jar full of whiskey sour.

“He’s figuring out his plan of attack.” Cliff sighed and pushed a lungful of smoke out of his nose while Rick stood immobile and contemplated the man. When Cliff mounted a horse he became a centaur. When Rick mounted a horse he developed giant water blisters on his ass. No one wanted to see a bouncing ass in a western, so the studio used Cliff for all long front and all back riding shots. Cliff, unknowingly, was responsible for all that Rick had accomplished in Bounty Law. The taciturn man was the source material for the character he played on TV. Rick had filtered Cliff's mannerisms, his gait, his magnetic presence, his quick temper, his lopsided smile, his laconic nature, through an actor’s eye to give life to what Rick considered a pale imitation, Jake Cahill. Never losing a chance, he observed the man in repose trying to memorize his current look for future reference. They had just finished shooting the last episode of the season for Bounty Law. In it, Cahill spent twenty minutes, out of the episode’s total of twenty-five, wandering and fighting in the desert. So, his stunt double, shadow, and best and only friend, now wore four days’ worth of beard stubble. He had trimmed it post shoot into a modified goatee. That, complemented with golden hair slicked back with sweat, chunky Mage sun glasses (permanently borrowed from Rick), dangling cigarette, and a sweat stained sleeveless t-shirt colored a deep pumpkin, announced to one and all that this was a man’s man; sex personified and shamelessly displayed. Could he project that combination of stillness, danger, and sexuality? Rick thought, “I fucking can’t do more than contemplate this man." A sudden snort of smoke issuing from Cliff’s nostrils startled him out of his reverie. Guided by cigarette glow, he made his way to the patio bench.

Cliff felt the familiar sensation of Rick pasting himself against his left side. The evening had begun. A handsome, roundish face framing tear filled eyes nestled itself in the crook of his neck. A flood of stuttering words- day’s events, recriminations, confessions of worthlessness, and declarations of self-loathing- issued from lips deeply buried in his clavicle. Sharing half a cigarette pack with Rick while stroking his hair- not to mention pouring half of the whiskey sour down Rick's throat- he nudged the actor into a state of calm. Cliff kept repeating again and again into Rick’s ear “You matter. You are a good, even great, actor. You’re fucking Rick Dalton. I am going to stick with you until you get the fame and fortune you deserve. Till the end partner.” Rick’s expression relaxed into a slight smile. He would soon be dead to the world. Carrying Rick to bed, stripping him for sleep, and downing the other half of the whiskey sour, concluded Cliff’s participation in that night’s play. Performing it on a near daily basis exhausted him and left him too tired to jack off; much less to go trawling for an evening’s hole- any hole. 

Cliff returned to the patio, smoked, and chewed on his life. He knew that while the demands made by Rick’s neediness and helplessness were bottomless, so was his generosity, friendship, and loyalty. He did not mind the ceremony; a structured variation of a scene that he had played out with Rick many times before. It had begun about a month or so ago, when Cliff had moved in. Repeating it nightly for the last few weeks had anchored him to Rick. A bond between them based on mutual dependency now existed. Rick’s stability and capacity to function was now conditional on Cliff’s conduct. Becoming more than a brother to Rick, but less than a wife, had changed him from a cocky, troublemaking man into the caretaker for a much wounded person. “Yeah, guess I’ve stopped drifting and am tied to Rick.” If the rest of his life continued in this fashion he was content. Let tomorrow be the same as today. 

A few days passed. The actor and the stunt man sat in the dark in their humid garden. They were plastered to each other. They were sharing cigarette after cigarette. They were drunk out of their minds. One had his arm around the other’s shoulders. One was sniffling and making soft noises; his face burrowed into the left side of the other’s sweaty neck. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. Words were being softly whispered. The alcoholic part of the night was beginning… and then…

Cliff felt Rick’s right arm slip around his waist. Spread fingers pressed down on his six-pack abdomen. The slow circles the palm was making on Cliff’s belly soothed him out of his initial shock at this turn of events. Well… He now considered himself Rick’s partner for life. “I’ve been promising that to Rick every night.” This expression of their relationship seemed natural. Cliff relaxed. Things proceeded as expected….

Later, Cliff sat alone in the garden looking up at the stars, sending smoke signals up into the night sky. “Shit. This is becoming kinda weird.” In the early years they had been together Cliff had kept their relationship at a macho buddy level. As soon as he sought comfort at Cliff’s shoulder he had been pushed away with “None of that fag shit. Don’t let anyone see you crying. You’re Rick Dalton for Christ’s sake.” Cliff chuckled and murmured, “that’s when I began to carry sunglasses all the time. Couldn’t let anyone see Jake Cahill’s tears.” As time went on their connection and familiarity had deepened. Cliff didn’t know exactly when Rick had literally burrowed into his shoulders. Now the intimacy and touches felt natural. In fact, he enjoyed it. But those touches were changing from brotherly to hot and heavy. “Bullshit. They’ve always been.” Cliff had never been stupid about what was going down. The hard on trying to poke out of his pants was proof of that. “Does third base come next? What if I have to hit a home run? Had plenty of experience in the army with men. When I got into the movie business I traded plenty of fucks for stunt jobs. Hell, the fucks were stunts and the part I always played was top pitcher.” He smiled, “I’m pretty sure that with a little practice Rick would become a hall of fame bottom catcher… Am I going to play the part of Rick’s stud? I’m already his kept man, his prostidude.” He knew that Rick would never be quit of him. Not that he wanted that… Ever... “Wouldn’t be fair to Rick.” Cliff sighed, “let’s hope he doesn’t want the full service package and would be satisfied with petting. But if he wants more, I’ll give it to him and it won’t be an act or a stunt. Until Rick makes his wants clear, I’ll wait.” He loved Rick. He needed Rick. There he said it. ”Fuck. Who depends on who?” Thoughts of a woman’s pussy were starting to be replaced with thoughts of Rick’s… “What? All that men had ever been to me was a way to jobs and to get off. Now I’m starting a high school gym romance? Shit.”

The next night another variation in the formalities emerged. Well, it may not have been a variation. Cliff was not the brightest bulb when it came to relationships. The crying jag reached the level of hysteria. The parade of sad words became unintelligible. The pressure on his clavicle from Rick’s moving lips became palpable. The realization came in an instant- Rick was using his lips to lick at the sweat that was pooling there. “How long had he been doing that?” and “What do I taste like when mixed with a whisky sour?” were the questions on Cliff’s mind. A smile spread on his face and he pressed Rick’s head deeply into the hollow in his flesh. His neck was at Rick’s disposal. “No reason to make it harder for my buddy… He’s going to have to quit smoking at night cause I ain’t letting him go near my pits drunk and with a lit cigarette in his mouth.” 

Cliff spent the next morning cleaning the pool. In the afternoon he gave Brandy a bath while Rick sat glued to the phone. The rumor was that the next season would be Bounty Law’s last so Rick was in hustling mode. He made call after phone call to casting agents, directors, anyone who could steer him to a job. It killed Cliff to see his Rick grovel. For the first time in a long while Cliff felt his position in the LA hierarchy. “The fucking shitheads should be crawling to Rick.” Later that afternoon, the outcome of those calls was clearly reflected in Rick’s surly expression. Cliff was conflicted. On the one hand he hoped that twilight would not arrive. On the other he hoped it would not end. “Christ. I’ve never thought this much about a night of necking. Hell. I’ve never had a night of necking that didn’t end with a good deep pounding fuck. Here I am trying to figure out how to pet my man to comfort him and make him feel good.” His man? “Damn. When did I start to think of Rick as mine?”

That night a puzzling nuance was added to Rick’s repertoire. He alternated between burying his face in Cliff’s neck and turning away from it to face his shoulder joint. Cliff asked himself, "what the fuck was this?” Now that he had given Rick overt permission, his briny neck had been looking forward to a long session of tickling lips and tongue. More whisky sour was required… As Rick became increasingly uninhibited the purpose of his repetitive movements became obvious. He was alternating between cat like licks and strong intakes of breath. It seemed that Rick liked both the taste of Cliff’s sweat and the smell of his armpits. . “Hmmm... My funk turns him on.” In the current heat wave Cliff wore sleeveless t-shirts and he had given up on deodorant; so those were avenues through which he could nurture this fetish. A slight physical rearrangement might encourage Rick's newly revealed fixation… Cliff moved his left arm; flexed it and rested the elbow on the top of the bench’s back. Rick found himself facing a hair dusted moist armpit. A second later his nose was rubbing it. Cliff considered, “except for the friggin jar in my right hand, looks like I’m nursing Rick.” It felt right. “Shit. Rick is my baby.”

Having put Rick down for the night, habit led Cliff to the garden. “If I keep sitting on this fucking metal bench my ass is going to look like a waffle.” Fortunately Rick had shown no interest in his ass. “What’s weirder. That he’s doing what he’s doing or that I am letting him do it? I’m disappearing into Rick... Fuck, disappearing? A little late to worry about that. I’m already his shadow in life and on film. Never before let anyone fuck with me. That bitch wife of mine learned that the very hard way. Who are we supposed to be? Ann Margret and Elvis? Tab Hunter and Rock Hudson. No… probably Gloria Swanson and Bill Holden.”

“What to do next. What? Fuck it… Haven’t felt this wanted in years. A man needs to be useful… Makes him feel good…. What? That sure as shit doesn’t sound like me.” The appearance in his thoughts of the word “wanted” made him pause. The intensity of this game of evening passion and day denial, this ceremony, was increasing exponentially. Yesterdays’ solitary jack off session had turned into a marathon that ended for Cliff with a bruised cock. How much longer could they go all day without admitting what they were doing at night? At the end of the game, would Rick realize he was the bitch? But if he was going to be, why is he the one doing the pursuing? If Cliff was to end up as the top, how come he was the one who would be permanently hog tied by obligations? This was not just a fuck game; deep down Cliff knew that at its end he would be totally responsible for Rick. “Shit, too much frigging thinking…” The realization that he might soon have no choice but to start thinking for two all of the time was accompanied by a wrinkled brow and a belch. “Smooth Cliff… real smooth…” Sunrise was settling in… The air was still… The humidity and heat were rising… The insects had begun filling the oppressive silence with their mating calls… 

“Plenty of women liked it up the ass. Sure way of not getting pregnant... Where had that come from?” The thought of a knocked up Rick both amused and aroused him. “Nah. We don’t need another kid. We’ve already got Brandy… We…” He was turned on. “No sense wasting a hard on. Time to jack off… Remember last night man… do it gently and with plenty of K-Y Jelly.” Dawn was announced by the sounds that Cliff made reaching orgasm... 

The pool was clean. His very sore cock was clean. Brandy was clean. He’d dumped a groaning Rick into the shower so he was clean. Everyone was going to be clean this day. He swam for hours in the bright morning sun. An hour or two of sun bathing killed a good part of the afternoon and gave the progressively drunk Rick a blurry view of a clean and golden Cliff. He was lying on his back at the edge of the pool wearing only a jock strap and soaking up the sun, skimming the water with one hand and taking drags from a cigarette with the other… He hadn’t found his swim shorts and he was pretty sure who the thief was. He turned his head to the bench where Brandy was sitting next to Rick. She was panting with delight as Rick rubbed her stomach and ears, telling her how good and beautiful she was; something Rick would do for hours. Cliff reflected on this pair of lovers. “My bitches. One licks me through half the night, the other buried my trunks cause I wouldn’t let her.”

Rick’s thoughts were very different. "Damn, why can’t I turn away from that greased flesh, slicked back hair, and chunky sunglasses? Hmm… Wonder where Cliff wants to go for dinner? Mexican? We should switch from whiskey sour to margueritas.”

The ritual continued as always. Necks were displayed. Armpits were exposed. Backrubs, caresses, and soothing words of care and affection, were doled out whenever and however they were required. This night Rick had quieted down very quickly but not quickly enough to stop him from getting bombed. His face had sunk to the rim of the whisky sour jar, his tears, saliva, and snot, were dissolving into the drink. The night had almost spent itself when Rick raised his face and tried to not weave as he looked into Cliff’s calm eyes. Which of them was the cobra and which was the mongoose? “Have a- a- drink p- part- ner..” Rick offered him the wobbling jar of liquor. 

In a handful of nights Cliff had become the sole supplier for ALL of Rick’s needs. Some would consider performing that job for a “famous” actor a much desired fate. To Cliff it had begun to feel like abuse he must shoulder. In exchange for flesh and comfort Rick provided him with prick teasing that kept him in a painful state of physical and mental arousal. Now, he was expected to drink spit and snot? He was not repelled by the thought of performing that act. He was by the level of attachment and intimacy it would seal. How much more could the proofs of sexless love escalate? What next? Sleeping in the same bed? Taking showers together? Sharing a toothbrush? Wiping each other’s asses? 

Cliff looked straight into Rick’s eyes and drank the whisky sour. Without conscious thought, he turned his face away from Rick and asked the dark, “Rick... partner… do you jerk off thinking about me?” The insects became quiet. All became still. Cliff's inner voice silently cried out "shit. This was the night.” 

Adrenaline can nullify the effects of alcohol. A suddenly sober and frightened Rick opened his eyes wide. “I’m frightened… Why? How to respond? Why had Cliff asked that?” His mind, desperate for a flippant response, searched his catalog of performances. Eyes averted from Cliff's he asked “why? Do you wa- wa- want to wa- watch?” 

“Good smartass reply” thought Cliff. Now it was his turn to serve. He gently disentangled their bodies, stood up; nudged Rick’s thighs apart, stepped into the created space, and looked down at him with a firm gaze. “Buddy… I know everything about you. There is one thing you don’t know about me. I’m now going to fix that.” Cliff peeled off his t-shirt and twisted it into a thin rope. He placed it like a horse bit in Rick’s gaping mouth. Rick clamped down on the t-shirt. In less than a second, the wet and scent soaked garment became his holy relic. With its ends dangling from the corners of his mouth, his resemblance to Brandy gumming a new bone was remarkable. Anyone who saw them together would have no doubt that Rick was her mother. As that thought/image crossed his mind, a gentle smile spread across Cliff's face... "mother and daughter... sweet." Cliff opened his jeans, pulled them and his underwear down, and scooped up his cock and balls into the palm of his right hand. Nervously, and increasingly defaulting to his natural Missourah twang, he began to recite the speech he had mulled over. 

“Partner… This is my lunch box. It’s the only thing I own and all I have to give you… Now, if you want, you can make it your private property and we can start to take proper care of each other. Don’t get nervous. I’ll go as slow as you want and I promise you I ain’t going to ask you to saddle me up and break me cause I know you don’t want to. I’m pretty sure of which way you lean and if you check me out you’ll see that I have what it takes to meet your needs. Still, I need you to say out loud what you want from me. No more hiding behind booze and blackouts. I want to take care of you kitten, now and always.” The final line was a last moment improvisation. Boy, “kitten.” Of all the sappy love names he knew- and he knew them all and which ones worked- he had blurted out that one. “Yeah… I’ve got it bad.” Cliff stripped.

Rick didn’t know how to respond. “Delay… delay…” a little voice whispered. He took his time putting the whiskey sour on the floor. That killed a few seconds. He then awaited the arrival of a miracle. None was forthcoming. “Look that way. Look over there. Tilt your head up. No! Don’t look straight ahead. Too late.” An impatient Cliff was standing in front of him, naked, overtly displaying his maleness. What a display. He had husbanded his beard. Its tight mustache was now filled in and bracketed by sharp, wide, vertical bars of hair connected by a neat goatee. By superposing that enhanced hair onto his careworn yet handsome features, he had manifested himself as a dark, possibly dangerous, and very sexual angel. A lifetime of work had molded a well proportioned body to support that face. The scars that marred his muscled flesh pronounced that this was a man who took on dangerous work and didn’t give a damn about impressing anyone. Rick had an urge to kiss and lick every one of those knotted blemishes. It was then and there that he realized the nature of his feelings for Cliff. He didn’t want just to have Cliff by his side; he wanted Cliff to absorb him, to “give Cliff a skin to dance in.” Rick’s focus shifted uncontrollably to large veined hands and feet. They yoked an endowment that perfectly complemented the body from which it sprang. 

Cliff’s pale flaccid cock was of an unthreatening size with a bulging blue vein pulsing along its length. Beneath it hung a pair of rather large balls enclosed in a low slung and very wrinkly sack of flesh. Given the soft fuzzy down that dusted Cliff’s body, the large amount of golden hair that crowned the cock and sprung from its pendant ball sack was a surprise. The other surprise was that Cliff was uncut. Faced with this perfect example of maleness and knowing that he had been offered its possession provoked Rick’s natural stress response- he began to quietly cry.

Cliff caressed the top of Rick’s head. “Darlin, what’s wrong? If you start crying every time you see me naked we’re going to be a pair of soggy sons of bitches; because I plan on being naked around you whenever we’re home.” The flow of tears accelerated. Cliff was in equal parts concerned and frustrated and his male insecurities rose up. “What’s wrong kitten? You don’t like what you see? What do I have to change? Mah junk isn’t big enough to make you feel good?” Explaining the tears with a mouth clamped around a cloth soaked with Cliff’s perspiration was going to be difficult; but as he had no intention of releasing it, he tried.. and failed. Rick used his tongue to push the center of the bridle so that it hung out of his mouth and spoke what he believed to be the truth, “l- look at me. Lo- look at u. You- you- are g- going to g- get tired of me. I am not g- good nuff to t- touch u.” Having said his piece, Rick immediately readjusted the bridle to its original position in his mouth... Relieved, Cliff laughed, lifted up Rick's chin, and riffed on those last words. “Sugar. Look at me. If you can find two people who fit together more than we do, I don’t know nothing. As for touching me… haven’t you been doing more than that to me for a while?” 

Rick blushed. It was true. Cliff allows him the use of his person for warmth, for comfort, as a scratching post, for confidence, for anything he wants. He never complains. Never touches him unless he signals for caresses. Never makes Rick face up to what he is doing- until now. He suddenly realized that this- to all appearances- volatile man possessed the patience of a saint. One could never ask for a better mate. Now, he was openly offering Rick companionship, protection, and with a surprising gathering of mushy endearments, love. How to answer? “I… I… I…”

It appeared to Cliff that he would have to notch up his physical display.

Cliff grabbed the t-shirt ends that dangled from the corners of Rick’s mouth and gently pulled. Either Rick was going to let go of his bridle or he was going to have a very close encounter with Cliff’s crotch. He didn’t let go. The musk smell that surrounded him was heady and made him want… more. Pushing his face into the crease between Cliff’s crotch and his upper thigh- one of his “devil’s horns”- brought Rick’s nose even closer to the unique earthy, pungent, smell that from then on he would associate with Cliff. He wanted… more. He took the bridle out of his mouth, carefully folded it, extended his tongue and tasted. It nearly made him come. The combination of wiry hair, smooth flesh, and Cliff’s singular odor produced an aphrodisiac that he would never tire of. A little exploration revealed that his man’s funk peaked at his perineum- his taint. The thought that he could spend as much of his life as he wanted gnawing this curved swelling excited him no end. “Shit. From now on, anyone who wants me only has to pry my face from between Cliff’s groin cleavage.” He wanted… more. His mouth enveloped the head of Cliff’s cock. Cliff gasped. It had been a long time since he had met a woman who would perform that act. He had a feeling that it was one that Rick would enjoy repeating over and over again. 

Cliff thought, “I’m a lucky man.” 

Servicing a cock was something about which Rick knew nothing. He was very experienced in being pleasured. Unfortunately, he had been bombed during most of those occasions. So, perseverance, sense memory, and the need to feed, would have to be his companions in performing the task that- literally- faced him. He already knew that he liked the taste of his man. The slippery fluid that was oozing from the slit on Cliff’s cock was introducing him to a new taste and texture. The thought, “different from pussy juice,” crossed his mind. The sensation of spongy flesh swelling and stiffening in his mouth encouraged him to take more of his new toy into his sucking mouth. An alarming fit of coughing followed, for, no surprise, Cliff was “a grower and not a shower.” Rick realized that his first impression of his lover’s cock was wrong. The sensation of choking it produced as its precum lubricated head wedged itself in the back of his throat proved that. “Should’ve known it from the size of his balls,” he thought. Rick now knew that he liked size… and slimy cock. 

Cliff was determined to never again hear the sound of discomfort during their lovemaking- yep, this was definitely lovemaking. He put his hand around Rick’s throat and gently pressured him to back off of his cock. He was startled when Rick immediately released the fleshy tube while making a cave for it in his wide open mouth. The position he then assumed enhanced by expectant liquid eyes and protruding tongue, reminded Cliff of Brandy’s stance when awaiting instruction. Jesus, Rick expected to be trained. Another responsibility. OK… He cupped his new lover’s head and gently introduced him to a sucking rhythm. Then, he took Rick’s hand and wrapped it around the base of his cock and started him pumping. For sure he was going to come. “No sense in letting my sweetheart believe he couldn’t satisfy.” His cock’s sensitivity built up and the pressure in his balls increased. Cliff’s mind drifted...

Basic sucking and playing with a “banana skin” were skills that Rick could obviously quickly pick up. Cliff really liked to hear his bed partners spew out obscenities and their most embarrassing deepest desires while he devoured them. He’d get Rick to make dirty, sleazy, sex talk part of lovemaking by example. “His toes will curl when he gets an earful of the things I want to do to him.” He would wait a few weeks before again encouraging his attempts at deep throat. Rimming and penetration had to be gingerly approached- for both. Nevertheless, he sure as hell was going to immediately begin fingering Rick’s… Can’t call it an “ass,” too… dirty- and not in a good way. Pussy? Cunt? Twat? Muff? Snatch? Box! Definitely “box.” It was the least girly sounding name for it. “Yep. Booth’s property. Rick’s Box.” He laughed. “Won’t my sweet, deep down innocent Hollywood baby be surprised when I introduce those big plush ass- no, make that pussy- lips of his to a sucking mouth, a wet tongue, a bristly chin, and a wriggling greased finger?” So much for taking it slow… 

No more time for daydreaming. Rick’s performance had exceeded expectations. Streams of hot white semen were pouring into his kitten’s mouth and throat. “Make sure to show him how not to spill any… Help him get over his shyness so he can tell me what he needs to get off… Let him get used to my body until he considers it his possession… Keep my pussycat’s bridle close at hand.… Will it make him feel safe and kept? Maybe golden showers?…” These would be his first entries in Rick’s training log. A life full of erotic duties lay ahead. The lessons could wait. Right now his sugar lips was too busy jerking off and sucking the marrow out of his new personal chew bone. 

Later, they were lying together in Rick’s bedroom, Cliff’s body wrapped protectively around him. Rick was sated and enjoying his afterglow. Cliff was just happy they had gotten off that garden bench; although he had to admit he was grateful to it for the role it had played in their courtship. Rick turned to his new owner, reached into his bag of memorized dialogue, and pronounced in a clear and unbroken voice, “I want you, partner. Need to wake up with you next to me. Need you to take care of me and get me through the day. Have to warn you. I know I can do this only once. Please, don’t hurt me,” and he started to sniff… No way was Cliff letting Rick Dalton ever cry again. An immediate distraction was required. Cliff’s mouth clamped down on his lovers’. He was happy to learn that Rick knew how to swab a lover’s tonsils. Cliff couldn’t wait to see what that tongue could do to his body. He covered every inch of Rick’s soft chest mounds- now branded as “Rick’s Rack”- with love bites. The crushing weight of responsibility he expected to accompany Rick’s words did not drop onto his shoulders. Instead, he was lifted up by the arcs of joy, desire, responsibility, and possessiveness that suffused him. The marking, the owning of his Rick Dalton could now begin.

Waiting for his sugar to again get hungry and reach for the lunch box gave Cliff time to amend an observation he had made not too long ago… he was more than Rick’s brother and far, far, far more than any wife could ever be…

To be continued...


End file.
